My shoulders are aching terribly, as if I were the bottom rung of a inverted human pyramid formed by a troupe of sadistically fat acrobats.
Never having experienced serious agony previously, I have never been prescribed any sort of pain-killers before. In fact, I have always believed that pain killers carry rather disreputable connotations, associating them almost exclusively with bankrupt rock-stars, extremely desperate drug addicts and other varieties of lowlife who can't afford proper heroin; or neurotic, ineffectual housewives unable to face the daily grind of vacuuming. An ignorant prejudice, perhaps, but I have always courted superiority, even when confined to my sick bed.
Apparently, my shoulders are forced into performing double their usual amount of labour -the poor darlings - because the recuperating muscles in my chest must remain untaxed for a few more weeks; hence their relentless aching complaints.
The doctors started me off on morphine, then downgraded my suffering to a couple of paltry Percocets. Currently I subsist on a potent cocktail of Tylenol and the first series of Downton Abbey, which is absolutely guaranteed to numb the senses.
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